I don’t know why I haven’t thought of doing a Friday feature on food before. There must be a number of foodie poems out there to choose from, more than just about plums and apple picking. And who knows, maybe I’ll cook something worth sharing on here. It’s been a hobby of mine for ages now. I just reorganized my cookbooks on a very crowded baker’s rack. I’m sure it would give Martha Stewart fits to see it.
So let’s start off this debut of Foodie Friday with a poem about my very favorite, even more precious than chocolate. That’s right, I’m taking about garlic. The fresh stuff, not the powder or salted kind. The kind I chop up in my homemade humus, crush into my tomato sauces, add to almost anything. I even have a recipe for garlic chip cookies I’ve been thinking of trying.
Proust talks about memory being attached to taste and texture, but how about smell? Good memories of Grandma’s house wafting through the air.
Allyl methyl sulfide is the stuff that gets into your bloodstream, and therefore into every fluid in your body, even your sweat. Some people are offended by the scent, but I just cannot grasp that concept. It’s like the perfume of the gods to my nostrils. Nothing better than lying down for a nap, long after chopping the stuff, only to find the scent still on my hands, now tucked under my head, that beautiful aroma ushering me off to a garden dream land.
Here’s William Stafford’s “Ode to Garlic.”